“Who even cares about that?” Miles screeches. “Damen’s driving a bus!” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder, jabbing toward the big, black monstrosity and wincing at the sight of it.
“Is it a bus or a mom car?” Haven squints, shielding her eyes from the sun. Glancing at each of us. “Whatever it is, one thing’s for sure, it’s tragically middle-aged.”
Miles nods, fully warmed up to the subject now. “First the glove and now this?” He frowns at Damen, disappointment clouding his face. “I have no idea what you’re up to, but dude, you are seriously losing your edge. You’re not even close to the rock star you were when you first came to this school.”
I glance at him, eyes narrowed in silent agreement. But Damen just laughs, too concerned with the proper care and feeding of the twins to bother with what anyone thinks—including me. And while that’s obviously the way a good, responsible, parental-type figure should think, something about it really bugs me.
Miles and Haven continue, teasing Damen about his new, surprisingly stodgy ways, as I tag along, a sliver of energy pulsating between us as he grabs my hand and thinks, What’s going on? Why are you acting like this? Is this because of the cat? I thought you understood all of that?
I stare straight ahead, focused on Miles and Haven, sighing loudly as I mentally reply: It’s not the cat. We settled that yesterday. She’s back at Haven’s, marking her days. It’s just—well, it’s like, here I am, making myself crazy, trying to find a solution so we can be together, and all you seem to care about is manifesting HDTVs and the world’s ugliest babyproof car so you can cart the twins around town! I shake my head, knowing I need to stop, before I go any further and really have something to regret.
“Everything’s changing,” I say, not realizing I said it out loud until the words ring in my ears. “And I’m sorry if I’m acting like a brat, but I’m just so frustrated that we can’t be together in the way that we want. And I miss you. I miss you so bad I can’t stand it.” I pause, eyes stinging, throat hot and tight, threatening to close up completely. “And now that the twins are living with you, and with my new job starting and all, well, it’s like, we’re suddenly thrust into this super stressful, middle-aged life. And trust me, seeing your new car just now didn’t help.” I peer at him, thinking there’s no way I’m riding in that thing. Instantly ashamed when I see him looking at me with such love and compassion I can’t help but fold. “I guess I was hoping this summer would be great, you know? I was hoping we could have some fun—just the two of us. But now it’s not looking so good. And, just to top things off, did I even mention that Sabine is dating Munoz? My history teacher? This Friday night, dinner at eight!” I scowl, hardly believing this pathetic life actually belongs to a supposedly powerful, newly immortal, almost seventeen-year-old girl.
“You got a job?” He stops in place as his eyes search mine.
“Out of everything I just said that’s what you’re focusing on?” I shake my head and pull him along, laughing in spite of myself.
But he just looks at me, gaze fixed on mine as he says, “Where?”
“Mystics and Moonbeams.” I shrug, watching Miles and Haven wave as they turn down the hall and head for class.
“Doing what?” he asks, not ready to drop it just yet.
“Retail stuff, mainly.” I gaze at him. “You know, working the register, restocking shelves, giving readings, stuff like that.” I shrug, hoping he won’t pay much notice to that last part.
Psychic readings? He gapes, stopping just shy of our classroom.
I nod, staring longingly as my classmates spill through the door, preferring to join them than having to finish what I started.
“Do you think that’s smart? Drawing that kind of attention to yourself?” Back to talking again now that we’re alone in the hall.
“Probably not.” I shrug, knowing it’s most definitely not. “But Sabine insists the discipline and stability will do me some good. Or so she says. She just wants to keep tabs on me. And short of installing a nanny cam, this is the easiest, least invasive way. She even had this horrible, soul-sucking, nine-to-five gig all set up and ready to go, so when Jude said he needed some help around the store, well, I didn’t have much choice but to—what?” I pause, seeing the look on his face, eyes guarded, hard to read.
“Jude?” His eyes narrowing to where I can just barely see them. “I thought you said someone named Lina owned the store.”
“Lina does own the store. Jude’s her grandson,” I say, only that’s not entirely true. “Well, he’s not her real grandson, it’s more like, she looks after him. Helped raise him after he ran away from his last foster home—or—whatever.” I shake my head. The last thing I wanted was to start a conversation about Jude, especially with the way Damen’s gone high alert. “I thought it might help, you know, allow unlimited access to books and things that might help us. Besides, it’s not like I’m working there under my real name. I’m using an alias.”
“Let me guess.” He peers into my eyes, seeing the answer displayed in my thoughts. “Avalon. Cute.” He smiles, but only briefly before he’s gone serious again. “But you know how it works, right? It’s not like a confessional where you’re shielded by a screen. People expect face-to-face contact. They want to see you to know whether or not they can trust you. So what exactly are you planning to do when someone you know just happens to walk in for an impromptu tarot card reading? Did you even think about that?”
I frown, wondering why he has to take what I thought was a pretty good deal and turn it into a problem. And I’m just about to deliver some snappy reply, say something like: Hello? I’m psychic. I’ll know before they even get through the door! when Roman appears.
Roman and—someone else—someone vaguely familiar—someone named Marco who was last seen in a vintage Jaguar, pulling up to his house.
Walking side by side, legs moving swiftly, eyes focused on mine. Roman’s gaze taunting, mocking, the proud owner of my dirty little secret.
Damen moves to shield me, gaze on Roman as he thinks: Stay calm. Don’t do a thing. I’ll handle this.
I peer over his shoulder, watching as Roman and Marco barrel toward us like an oncoming train. Gazing at me with eyes so deep, so blue, everything blurs but his moist grinning lips and flashing Ouroboros tattoo. And the last thing I think, before I’m sucked in completely, is that this is my fault. If I’d kept my promise to Damen and stayed away from him, I wouldn’t be facing this now.
His energy swirls toward me, tugging, pulling, luring me in, sucking me into a spiral of darkness, bombarding me with images of Damen—the tainted antidote—my ill-advised visit—Haven—Miles—Florence—the twins—all of it coming so quickly I can barely distinguish between them. But the individual images themselves aren’t important—it’s the whole he wants me to see. All of it meant to illustrate one single thing: Roman’s in charge now—the rest of us are just puppets, pulled by his strings.
“Mornin’, mates!” he sings, releasing me from his grip as my body falls limp against Damen’s.
But despite his sweet murmurings as he ushers me away from Roman and into the room, despite the soft reassurances intended to soothe, convinced that we’ve just dodged a bullet and it’s over for now, I happen to know it’s only begun.
More is coming.
There’s no doubt.